


Winged Cupid Painted Blind

by coffeebuddha



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Humor, M/M, Magic Arrows, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't like to brag--that's a blatant lie, he loves to brag--but he has a rather exceptional skill set, even for a SHIELD agent.</p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>The one where Clint is actually Cupid and he doesn't understand why every time he thinks he's found the right person for Phil, he can't bring himself to shoot them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winged Cupid Painted Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys, remember a million years ago when I was still on LJ and started talking about wanting to write a fic where Clint is Cupid and he keeps making his teammates fall in love, but every time he thinks he's found the right person for Phil, he can't bring himself to shoot them? Yeah, well, apparently that's still a thing that's happening. Yay?

Three days after Natasha tells him that she doesn't believe in love at first sight, Clint shoots her and Agent Hill while Director Fury's introducing them to each other. He mostly does it to be a dick, but that doesn't mean it's a bad idea.

Clint's all about professional integrity.

No, really.

* * *

New Mexico was supposed to be a cake walk, just another easy, routine assignment in a long line of easy, routine assignments, and then he sees that fucking hammer.

It takes him a full seven minutes before he can stop laughing. A couple of newer agents edge away from him; he has enough of a reputation for being 'hard to work with' and 'a little bit of a crazy asshole' _without_ breaking into hysterics over a hammer, and that's the sort of thing that tends to make people kind of edgy. He probably would have kept laughing for at least another few minutes, but Coulson cuffs him upside his head and calls, "You're scaring the kids, Barton. Stop that," over his shoulder without missing a step.

"It's good for them," Clint tells his back. "Keeps them on their toes." Coulson just waves a dismissive hand at him and keeps walking. Clint dials his glee back to a borderline demented grin. Judging by how the other agents are still shuffling out of what they obviously think is his reach, it isn't much of an improvement. It's totally not his fault though, because honestly, _hammer._

Still, he does his job, even if he can't quite bring himself to grab the gun Coulson orders him to use, and then everything's said and done, and he's not feeling so much like laughing anymore.

It's easy to sneak into the holding room; anyone else would probably say it's too easy, but anyone else wouldn't be Clint. Clint doesn't like to brag--that's a blatant lie, he loves to brag--but he has a rather exceptional skill set, even for a SHIELD agent. Their detainee is slumped in a chair, bowed over until he's practically doubled over, and Clint snags one for himself from where it's placed against the wall.

"You've never been too good at the whole 'subtlety' thing, have you," he asks as he spins his chair around one handed and straddles it. He crosses his arms across the back, an arrow idly flipping between his fingers, and tries for a smile that doesn't quite sit right when Thor's head snaps up.

"Cup-"

"Clint," Clint cuts in quickly. "I'm going by Clint right now."

"Oh," Thor says in a tone that says he doesn't actually understand, but is willing to play along. Clint flips his arrow more rapidly.

"It's part of the whole 'being subtle' schtick I'm working here," Clint offers, and when Thor only nods, he drums his fingers along the arrow shaft and goes on. "I can't stay long; Phil's probably already on his way back." 

The only response to that is a minute nod.

Clint exhales heavily, asks, "Shit, man, what are you even doing here? Last time I saw you, you were drunk as shit and happy as a fucking clam in Asgard."

And Thor's not even close to being a small man, but he sort of folds in on himself at that, his face crumpling into an expression not unlike a puppy that's had its favorite toy taken away and been kicked and doesn't understand why. "I have been," he pauses, shrinks inward just that little bit more, "turned out from Asgard for the time being."

"Ouch," Clint says with a wince, because seriously, there's not really anything that can be said to that, but he can't just say nothing.

"Indeed." Thor chuckles humorlessly and scrubs a palm over his face. 

"And that whole shitstorm with Mjolnir ," Clint says slowly. "That's part of the deal?"

"So it would appear." Thor's lips twist into a wry grin at that and he shakes his head. "My father has always had a talent for striking where it will do the most damage. It has made him a fierce warrior and a strong leader, but I confess that it is not a quality that fills me with fondness for him at this moment."

Clint bites his tongue, because he might have a reputation for being reckless and letting his mouth run, but he's still not anywhere near big of an asshole enough to say, 'No shit, because most kids take being disowned _so well_ ,' to a clearly heartbroken Thor. 

There's a noise in the hallway, nothing that would even register for most people, but both their heads swivel toward the door at the same time and Clint's arrow finally stutters to a full stop.

"You should go, perhaps," Thor says carefully without taking his eyes from the door. "While you can still easily do so."

"Right." Clint nods, his head inclined toward Thor.

"Cupid," Thor says and reaches out to touch the back of Clint's hand when he stands to leave, and there's a thread of steel in his voice that keeps Clint from correcting him again. He clasps Clint's wrist, pauses, eyes fluttering closed for a long moment, then looks up at him with a sad, dimmed smile. "It was good to see the face of a friend during such a trying time."

"Yeah." Clint claps Thor's shoulder with his free hand, twisting his other out of Thor's grasp and inching back toward the door almost simultaneously. He clears his throat. "Well. Anything for one of the old gang, you know?"

And maybe he does or maybe he doesn't, but his head is already bowed--with fatigue or sadness, and Clint wouldn't judge him for either--and his focus is turned too firmly inward for Clint to reach him.

Clint slips out of the room as easily as he snuck in. No one sees him enter, and nobody sees him leave; if anyone looks at the surveillance tapes during the time he was in the room, all they'll see is what appears to be a grown man talking to himself.

It's not exactly surprising. Love often goes unseen.

* * *

Clint Barton was born in Iowa. He has one brother, Barney, who he's completely estranged from, and two dead parents. There are birth records in the Waverly hospital, a car wreck report at the police department. In a dusty shoebox shoved to the back in a battered, long abandoned orphanage, there are a scant handful of photos of a scrawny boy with Clint's eyes and nose and mouth. A collector in Cleveland has a poster of him shooting a target in a flashy costume, a retired acrobat has another one framed and hanging in her hallway. It's not uncommon knowledge that Clint learned his hard earned marksman skills under the big top. Innumerable people have seen him perform; Fury's own first exposure to him was a video of one of his William Tell performances in Portland.

That Clint has never stepped foot in Iowa, has never even sat in the _audience_ of a circus, is completely inconsequential, because these are the very well documented facts of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from A Midsummer Night's Dream.  
> My tumblr can be found [here](http://coffeebuddha.tumblr.com/).


End file.
